


Red hair

by emocsibe



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Angst, Grief/Mourning, Hurt, Implied/Referenced Murder, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Layers Of Fear AU, M/M, Memories, Mental Health Issues, Repressed Memories, painter Goodnight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-08-01 04:02:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16277426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emocsibe/pseuds/emocsibe
Summary: He lifts his brush and adds a taint of red onto the picture, tracing the corner of a mouth, the line of a cheek, the ridge of a nose, the arch of a brow until it reaches the hairline of the model, black strands of hair already darkened by a wet, grim redness. He remembers his fingers on the same path, on the same skin, within the same locks of hair, warm with life and soft with love.





	Red hair

There was a man standing in a room, pressing a brush to a sketched canvas, tracing the lines of a man’s portrait on it with soft colours and soft touches, loving every moment of creating the man’s likeness again. He had painted him several times, had pictured him in his crisp white shirt, in his black vest, imagined him wearing nothing and imagined him clad in dreams, but somehow, it was never to his satisfaction. Somehow it always lacked life, lacked the beauty he fell in love with.

 

_Billy was, for him, a flame that never wavered. His hair was black seaweed that tied around his ankles and his eyes were black pearls that shone with the depths of the abyss that had been waiting for him for ages. He knew that if he were to love this man as much as he wanted to love him, he would fall and he would not stop at the surface – he would fall straight into hell. He had only loved two men before with the same vehemence, with the same passion and such a want that could not be stopped. No, maybe not with the same burning fire, no; only a small pile of embers compared to that pyre of devotion and caring he felt towards Billy – a pyre he would not be able to put out with all the waters of the oceans and seas even if it meant his own destruction. Billy was beautiful and his smiles hidden for others, yet so blatantly displayed for him and him alone, oh, those were warm and sweet and worth living for._

 

He lifts his brush and adds a taint of red onto the picture, tracing the corner of a mouth, the line of a cheek, the ridge of a nose, the arch of a brow until it reaches the hairline of the model, black strands of hair already darkened by a wet, grim redness. He remembers his fingers on the same path, on the same skin, within the same locks of hair, warm with life and soft with love.  

 

_Billy loved when he played with his hair, and thus he braided it, brushed it and twirled it around his fingers, watched as the first and last lights painted it in a way his hands and his palette never could. He kissed his face and his temple and his lips and he felt the skin under his fingers, so soft and so warm, such a nice contrast to the canvas he was used to, with its dry and coarse surface. He loved tracing Billy’s face, loved getting lost in the movement, in the ideas that ran wild in his mind, that were already painting the man in gold and silver stealing the glances of the highest of high and lowest of low alike. He saw Billy like that; saw him like a king without a crown, an angel without a halo, a god without power on anyone but him._

 

He adds a light to the eyes, a sharp, yellow light, turning the black irises into deep brown flame as they stare at something just outside the frame. The man stares and his face is frozen in an emotionless contemplative tilt, just watching, watching, watching. He doesn’t remember what was that caught the man’s attention, or why he dozed, but he adds some grey to the corners of the mouth and the eyelids.

 

_Billy was always attentive, always looking and absorbing information, about him, about the world. He also liked to watch the gardens, the statues, even the ancient graveyards they passed during their walks, and whenever they went through one, he let himself run his fingers over the broken wings of angel or the praying hands of a Maria-statue. He did the same with the ponds during the summer and during winter, never letting an opportunity to stare at the ripples or fishes or the ice that covered them go. Billy also caught on quickly about how people stared at him, at them, walking down the street, not even holding hands, only brushing shoulders once in a while, as to remind each other. Remind each other what? Why are they looking, why do they hate Billy, why?_

 

He stares ahead and his head swims, his eyes water and he lifts his hand with the brush, the hair dripping with red, red, red, so much red on the hair and it’s suddenly not the brush but Billy’s head, his hair, so dark so wet and so red, there is so much red again.

 

_Billy loved it when he painted and let him watch the process, loved seeing his small moves, listening to him hum out a tune they had heard in the opera house earlier on, loved embracing him and holding him in his hands while he continued painting. Billy would kiss his neck and look at the paintings over his shoulder, muttering words of praise into his ear as he held him, as he loved him, as he warmed him. Billy loved love, the concept, the feeling, the depths of it and the vastness of it, loved how he could love him with small gestures and intense touches, how he could love with a glance or a word, how he could feel it reflected back twofold. Billy loved being loved. Loved it even more than life._

He holds his brush with only his fingertips and stares ahead at the painting, stares at the drenched profile of his lover, the blood, all the blood, still looking fresh – but it wasn’t, no it wasn’t -, the skin, looking soft and alive – but it wasn’t, no it wasn’t. He takes in the forced loll of the head, the look in his eyes – suddenly without the light, without the yellow and the brown and the black, left empty with a mist of grey.

 

He walks to the door, never looking to the side, not caring about the others there, all ghouls in white and grey, all loud and silent, all sick and bothersome and not Billy, not Billy, there’s no Billy here, no. He walks through a corridor full of whites and greys and he hears them talk, hears the sounds they make and he cares not.

 

“What… that splatter… canvas… inrecognisable…”

“He has gone… knew how to paint… lost him… was shot in the head…”

“Do you… save a killer…”

“… revenge…anyhow…don’t think…”

 

And so he thinks not, cares not – he only remembers and paints his desires and his dreams and his hands do them harm on the canvas and turn them into fears and nightmares. He lifts his brush and paints his own eyes red. He hears no shouting and feels no grief anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write something sad, try a not-so-conventional style, and I really was in the mood for some Layers of Fear vibes so. I usually hate sad endings but now it just got to be this way. Gonna post it before I chicken out.


End file.
